


the sun (makes the hills its grave)

by mildlyobsessive



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Gen, Guardian Angels, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Murder, Prison, Yikes, heathens video, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:38:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlyobsessive/pseuds/mildlyobsessive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'll never see the sun again, Tyler's realized.  He thinks he's impartial about it.  He's got one down here, after all, and his does so much more than float broodingly up above him.  His sun is evocative in his basic existence, in the red rimmimg his eyes and the matted hair Tyler longs to comb through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun (makes the hills its grave)

**Author's Note:**

> Triggerstriggerstriggers
> 
> Note:  
> my intention of this was in no way too romanticize mental illness or anything related. the wording of this is meant to reflect Tyler's mental state, and that's that. Thank you, carry on 
> 
> Anyway enjoy my heathens-inspired trash

There's something in the butterfly breaths that clutter in his chest, something in the way his shredded fingers wrap perfectly around the cool metal bars separating him from the world. Something in the satisfying nothingness that his days have become entranced by. 

Tyler's found something attractive in prison life, but he's found so much more in the boy across the hall.

The boy who beats the drums no one else seems to hear with the passion of Moses parting the Red Sea, whose arms flex and relax with a beat for Tyler and Tyler alone. The tattoos splattered across his body are beautiful in their complexity, in the fact that there is more color staining his skin than in Tyler's whole metal-filled universe.

He'll never see the sun again, Tyler's realized. He thinks he's impartial about it. He's got one down here, after all, and his does so much more than float broodingly up above him. His sun is evocative in his own basic existence, in the red rimming his eyes and the matted dyed hair that Tyler longs to comb through.

He knows the drumming boy. He's certain of it. Seen him before, touched him before. But he doesn't know when or why or who.

He doesn't answer when Tyler asks. He supposes that makes sense. He's the sun, and the sun isn't meant to speak. It would be blasphemy, Tyler thinks, for such a primal, eternal thing to use such a basic means of communication, for a flawed language to spill off of a perfect tongue. 

But he wishes someone would tell him what happened. Why he's here, in a scratchy polyester jumpsuit on a scratchy woolen blanket in a place full of scratchy bearded men who call him things that make his skin crawl. 

There's something to it. 

Something.

The warden's yelling at him, angry, accusing words that Tyler can't seperate. They blend together in a blur, and with the drums pounding pounding pounding Tyler can't discern one from the other. All he knows is tone and tears and bruises on his thighs and there's something to this, something, but he doesn't know what it is.

He's shaking, shuttering, shivering, "Will someone please just tell me what happened please who am I why am I here?" And the warden is a black hole that can swallow even the sun across the hall. He sucks everything from Tyler, the pieces of himself he's managed to scrounge together wilting and withering. And as everything disappears into the leering maw of this abyss, this supernova, this utter opposite of life, it regurgitates one word for him. 

It's a gift. A curse. A well-placed missile, heat-guided, hitting its target remorselessly. 

"Murderer."

And Tyler knows then, knows deeply and painfully and irrevocably, that he killed the sun. 

What better punishment, than for the destroyer of light to rot in a place of such darkness? What a fitting end, for him to lie entangled with a red-faced, white-knuckled black hole. 

And when's alone again, nothingness draining from him like blood and pus from a wound left untreated, the sun is gone. The cell across the corridor is dark and damp and empty empty empty.

There's something in the butterfly breaths coming to a choked stop, something in the way his hands tie a knot with such confidence, something in the way the bloodthirsty boy dies so far from the light he craved.

Something in the way the sun rains down tears of fire and rage, burning with grief and regret and forgiveness it never got to give. 

There's something to it all.

Something.


End file.
